The Art Of Giving

Our minds can be such echo chambers that it is impossible to determine where things begin and end. What started what.

The gerbil was spinning the wheel. We were waiting for the movie to begin, and mom leaned over and asked me if everything is okay. I told her yes, which was a complete lie, so I explained that I was just a little heartachy from leaving a friend I had visited yesterday, and, on top of that, there was the loud echo of me telling myself that it was strange and silly to fall in love with someone who lives in another city, in another state. The reverb was giving me a headache, I was frowning, and having difficulty being with my family. Mom, as usual, noticed.

I told her that what I couldn't get is what was underneath it all. Why was I beating myself up? Mom said I was asking myself an unanswerable question, one I ask myself all the time. At that moment, I noticed myself shouting it to myself. "Am I ok?".

And suddenly, the gerbil wheel started to spin more slowly. Am I ok? Yes, there it was: I've loved people long distance before. Am I ok? And those didn't work out, didn't I learn anything. Am I ok? And my friend is so very interested in being good friends first, and I always take that as rejection, which I know is weird but I do it anyway, can't we be boyfriends already and just move in? Yesterday? Am I ok? And he's a friend I've shared things with that no one else knows; and we're builing a powerful friendship around that. Am I ok? And then the wheel stopped. I had no answer for the question, and could love myself for it. I smiled. All the chatter stopped. I was just clear on one point. I love my friend. And, we're friends. What a beautiful place to be.

Earlier that day, my father asked me how I felt in the car. I told him what I told my mom. He didn't pause "so call him. I won't listen." I have great parents.

Some time ago, when my last boyfriend and I were having some problems, someone told me that relationships fail at exactly the point you are willing to give up on them. I was this close, in the theater, with my mother, to giving up on my friend. But I've chosen a different path: I'm going to grow a great friendship, and be content with whatever happens.

The mind was on overdrive today.
I experienced an unusually high dose of sidewalk rage today. It even creeped in to my walk with Kimble. You see, with Kimble on the leash, I have learned to amble, wander, walk at a pace whereby I can notice everything around me. I am calm and one with the sidewalk, trees, buildings, cars, dogs, dog poo that someone neglected to pick up, and other people. But today I was on a tear, and my little guy was all *? So I let up a bit. But I had to work for it.

I went fishing for a compliment from FC and he called me on it. If we had been in the same room he would have punched me. He's the only person, besides my former coaches, who have called me on that. And of course my reaction was annoyance. I was not fishing! I was. I owned up to it and felt better, but it took a few hours for me to get it. In the meantime, I was annoyed at him.

I got several emails in reply to my change-of-address notification. I got annoyed by the ones freaking out that I'm leaving Manhattan after 13 years. It felt so much easier to not go along with their joke: I get to be right that way. Not pretty.

I was this close to tearing into three queens who, upon leaving Better Burger, chose to smoke their cigarettes just outside the open door to the restaurant, thereby filling the restaurant with smoke. Then they threw their butts on the sidewalk. I have many judgments and complaints about smokers, and the one I have the most difficult time owning is the one that came up tonight: the city is not your fucking ashtray.

Then, after dinner, I walked home on my quiet, tree-lined street. I was walking very slow. I felt great. The weather had changed.

Instead of complaining, my head went into its love-everywhere mode. I love so many parts of my life. I have friends who are excited about my move. I have a friend who will call me on being manipulative. I live in a city with all types of folks. I live on a street with handsome trees. I have a loving dog waiting for me when I get home. I love having emotions.

Today, Eric's ex-boyfriend and I spoke. He was crying. He was upset. He thought he shouldn't be feeling like he was. He asked me what I thought. I told him he should feel everything he feels today, and every day. It means you're still alive.

I was in a library. Or was it a bookstore? It was like a gothic Barnes & Noble, with nooks, turrents, gargoyles, and recessed wooden bookshelves in every wall. There was English club furniture everywhere, and people were engrossed in volumes new and old.

As I stepped into the library, a crowd passed me. A crowd of hunky men. They were all in sweatshirts, hoodies. Some wore shorts and some sweatpants. The outlines of their lean, muscled backs shown through the droopy gray athletic clothing. Their legs were thick and muscled, like a rugby team. My libido kicked in and my nose followed the men.

Something else kicked in. I felt an incredible sense of well-being. It felt like my rugby dream from years ago. Everyone was happy to be with everyone. Everyone knew everyone. And surrounded by awesome feats of cabinetry.
I started to act cool, so as to appear to be not sniffing up these guys so obviously, and I turned my attention to the cabinetry.

When I looked up, they had gone. I panicked. Where were they? I started looking around in a large nook they could have grouped in, but I found no one. In fact, there was nothing. This nook had no furniture. I looked around: I would have seen them go somewhere else. Then I noticed that a large bookcase in one of the nook's walls was ajar. It was a door.

I pushed it, and saw a cold, dark, stone corridor, with some light at the end. In the distance, I saw a wrestling mat. Beyond the immediate portal, however, was a guy I went to grade and high school with: Brett. He had aged, as had I. His lean Italian body had filled out more: thicker, bigger, hairier. He smiled at me like I had been tagging along this whole time, and I had simply lagged behind. "What happened? We're waiting for you. You ready to roll?"

I could blame it on my computer. My laptop has been in the shop for almost a month. It's the computer I have at home, when, between meals and playing studio-apartment-fetch with the K-dog, I have the opportunity to write.

I could blame it on death and illness. Eric died. A friend's dad died. My dad had cancer surgery (and is totally ok now). Nothing happened.

I could blame it on my impending move. After 13 years of living in Manhattan, I'm moving to another borough. I spent a great deal of time finding an apartment.

I could blame it on the design competition I completed Monday with colleagues, which consumed a great deal of time. Or my business, which has been good, and hectic.

I could blame it on my new trainer. Since April 1, he has been putting me through the paces. I sleep a lot.

I could blame it on Fight Cub.

I could blame it on a hottie or two that I play with from time to time, to fill the long gaps between when FC and I see each other.

But that would all be like me saying I was busy. And that is a lousy excuse. We're all New Yorkers: we're all busy, important, and tired. It's like saying I breath air and speak a language. Besides, you would never buy it.

I simply didn't feel like writing. And oh, there is so much to write about.